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It’s one of those days when the leather of the seat molds to the skin of Sam’s thighs and the crooks in his knees. The heat bears down so thick and heavy that it’s too much effort even to lift his hand and pull at the frays of his cutoffs. Each breath makes a dry death rattle coming in and a fresh wave of what feels like steam going out, the only moisture in the bone-dry Arizona air. Even his heartbeat feels sluggish in the 100+ degree weather of the dog days of summer.
Dad and Dean have been in the store for about eight and a half years, by Sam’s count, and he’s another ten seconds from heaving himself into the front seat and treating himself to A/C and stereo at full blast. He’d usually catch hell for being in the driver’s spot, but Dad’s too preoccupied with the case to care and Dean’s punishments lead to more fun than harm lately.
The bell over the door rings and Sam gathers his energy to throw, at the least, a small tantrum, but then Dean is next to him on the seat in a lazy sprawl, drenched with sweat and freshly sunburnt across the apples of his cheeks. Sam expects a Coke and a bag of Funyuns and instead gets the ticklish scrape of Dean’s teeth along his jaw. It’s too damn hot for this, way too dangerous with Dad so close, but this thing is still too fresh and fragile to turn away. Dean’s fingers skid all over in the patches of sweat at his sides, the small of his back. Sam’s way past ready for it when their mouths press together, slipshod, sideways, and perfect. He does his best to breathe Dean in, to pull the air from his lungs. It leaves him lightheaded, dizzy with the knowledge that his only two choices are to push Dean away or to pull him in, devour him. If they stop, they wait the breathless minutes, hours, days until their next orphaned moment of solitude. If they don’t, there’s no air between them, just the push-pull of how far how long just a little more. They smother in each other.
Either way, Sam thinks, they suffocate.